


In Absentia

by timehopper



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Lies, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:48:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25268635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timehopper/pseuds/timehopper
Summary: They're not in love. They're not in love. But maybe --No. They're not in love.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 20
Kudos: 89





	In Absentia

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of those things where it's like, "I wrote this for me." This is the kind of thing I like to read: something that sounds sad, but might not be. 
> 
> Is it, though? I'll leave that up to you! There are definitely some things going on here. But part of the fun is deciding what those things are, I think!

For his 18th birthday, Sylvain gives Claude a board game. 

"I saw you eyeing it up the other day," he says by means of explanation. "And a little birdie told me your birthday was coming up, so…"

Claude takes the box from Sylvain's hands. He looks down at it, almost disbelieving. It's true; he _had_ been looking at this game for some time, but he's never really spoken to Sylvain before now, aside from a brief greeting when he'd joined the Golden Deer. Why would he go out of his way to buy something like this?

It’s an unusually kind gesture. Claude wants to thank him. He really does. What comes out instead is, "What do you want?"

Sylvain laughs like he'd been expecting the question. "Got me pegged, haven't you?" He smiles, and Claude doesn't think he's ever seen anyone so happy to be called on his suspicious behaviour. But in the end, he comes clean: "Fine," he admits. "Maybe I wanted someone to play with."

Claude smiles back. He isn’t sure he believes that, but he holds his hand out anyway.

Sylvain takes it.

"Let's go, then."

* * *

They play. The game is deceptively simple: painted tiles are placed on a board, worth more points depending on the configurations surrounding them. There's more strategy involved than Claude had first assumed, and it’s… fun. 

Really fun. 

He has the time of his life sitting across the board from Sylvain, taunting him into mistakes he never actually makes, laughing when Sylvain brags about the placement of his pieces and how many points they'll net him, stealing the spots that would otherwise guarantee victory and gloating himself about how Sylvain should quell that ego of his and play closer attention. 

In the end, despite Claude’s best efforts, Sylvain wins. He leans back in his seat, a hand at his forehead as he breathes out a nervous laugh. "Wasn't sure I was gonna make it there," he says. "Not bad, von Riegan."

Claude gathers up the tiles and puts them back in the bag. "Whatever you say," he concedes, trying to sound put-out, but the grin that tugs at the corners of his lips betrays him. "Play again?" 

Sylvain beams.

* * *

They meet to play again regularly after that. Sometimes it’s a different game, sometimes the same one. Every time, there’s something about Sylvain, something in the way he studies the board and watches Claude deliberate his next move, that makes Claude wonder if there had been an ulterior motive to the gift, after all.

He thinks he finds out one afternoon, weeks after their first game, when their hands brush as they clear the tiles off the board. Claude pauses; Sylvain freezes. Hand over hand, they look up at each other, like actors in a play, characters in a book. The strangeness of it is not lost on Claude. 

Sylvain smiles. "This is fun," he says. He pulls his hand away, out from under Claude's, and drops the tiles into the drawstring bag. 

Their games are always a little different after that. In many ways, they never end. 

Claude thinks he likes it. Until the game changes. 

* * *

Sylvain says it first.

They dance on the night of the ball, arm in arm and bodies close, and to everyone else it's a joke - and maybe it is to them, too, but Claude looks up into Sylvain's face, and he sees that same smile he’d worn when their hands had touched, and he thinks he might have forgotten the punchline. 

They spin in place. The music swells. It's time to swap partners. But before Sylvain lifts his hands away and Claude turns to take another partner, Sylvain pulls him close and leans down to whisper into his ear, "I think I'm in love with you."

But there's no time to ask, because he's passing Sylvain off and being passed off himself, and so Claude continues the dance, unsure of where he's supposed to go from here. 

* * *

His feet carry him to the Goddess Tower. And of course, Sylvain is there too - _of course he is_ \- but is it because he, too, was lost in thought? Or is this all part of some plan, some new game? Some old game that they never spoke of, but never stopped playing? 

Sylvain doesn't hear him approach. Claude has long since learned to keep his footsteps silent, and it isn't until they're side-by-side, staring up at the tower's peak and the moon beyond it, that Sylvain notices. 

"Fancy meeting you here," Claude says. 

"I needed some air," Sylvain responds.

"Mm." 

They don't look at each other. 

"And you?" 

"I was tired," Claude says. "I have a lot on my mind."

"Ah." At last, Sylvain slides his gaze from the moon, and he looks down at Claude. He's silent for a moment, and then:

"I meant what I said, you know."

Claude looks at him. Stares right into his eyes. He sees something there, something that unties the knot in his chest, smooths out the strings of his heart, tells him that everything is as it should be. 

He smiles. "No you didn't."

And Sylvain smiles back. "No, I didn't."

He strokes Claude's cheek with the back of his hand. They kiss under the moonlight, and Claude leaves the tower feeling heavier. 

* * *

Things change after that. 

They still play games together. Still talk. But now there’s something between them, something heavy and electric. It’s no surprise when they end up in Claude’s bed, Sylvain complaining about the books on the floor as he dances and pivots around them, as he throws Claude down onto the bed and crawls over him to kiss his breath away. It’s an unspoken inevitability, one Claude welcomes with open arms and spread legs. 

Sylvain tells Claude he loves him. Whispers it in his ear as he slides a hand beneath Claude’s shirt, splays his fingers over his chest. And Claude reaches up, brushes Sylvain’s lips with his thumb, and says, “No you don’t.” 

Sylvain grins around his thumb, slips it between his lips. “How do you know?” he asks. 

_Because you’re a liar,_ Claude doesn’t say. _Because I’m a liar, too._

They kiss, and then there’s no more need for words. 

* * *

It becomes routine. 

They play, and they dance, and they chat, and Sylvain sweeps Claude off his feet. They fight, and they win, and they learn, and Claude pushes Sylvain to his knees. 

Sylvain professes his love. Says it like a prayer, like a secret shared between them, mumbled between the sheets, behind stacks of books and in the light of dying candles: “I love you, I love you.” He breathes it against Claude’s neck as he arches his back beneath him, as Claude fits between his legs and holds him down with hands at his neck: “I’m in love with you. I’d give my life for you to love me back.”

And Claude never believes him. “You’re not in love,” he says. “You don’t love me.” 

And every time, he’s right. Every time he catches him, Sylvain smiles that sharp, knowing smile of his, he kisses Claude, and tells him he’s right. 

“I don’t,” he says. And it’s fine. 

They’re not in love. That’s okay.

* * *

Everything changes. 

Jeralt dies, and takes a piece of the world as they know it with him. Byleth’s hair and eyes turn green. They say it’s because of the goddess, that Teach has received some sort of divine gift, but Claude isn’t sure he believes it. He’s too used to hearing lies.

He finds Sylvain. 

* * *

“Why do you love me?” Claude asks one night, flat on his back and stars in his eyes as he looks up at Sylvain.

He expects an answer. He expects, “I don’t.” He expects… something. What he gets instead is Sylvain falling apart above him, brow furrowing and honey-gold eyes slipping shut as he comes, as his fingers clench in the sheets and his teeth dig into Claude’s bottom lip. 

They lie together in the aftermath, sticky and tired. Claude cards a hand through Sylvain’s hair. Sylvain turns to lie on his side. 

"I'll be trapped in a loveless marriage someday," he says, quietly, out of nowhere, a fingertip tracing along Claude’s skin. "So I might as well fall in love now."

And, sure as ever, Claude says, "You don't love me," a smile on his face as he takes Sylvain’s hand and lifts it to his lips. He’s pleased - pleased to be in familiar territory, to be distracted from his thoughts. From what he wants.

Sylvain laughs. “I love you more than life itself.”. Claude pulls him into a kiss to silence him, to stop the lies so they can both pretend, even just for a moment, that they aren’t who they are, that they don’t have dreams and obligations and burdens weighing heavy enough on their backs they threaten to break. 

They’re not in love. But pretending they are is more fun, anyway.

* * *

Edelgard declares war. 

There’s time to prepare, but precious little of it. There’s no longer time to waste with board games or kisses stolen between classes or sex in the library in the dead of night - yet still, they find each other, fall into each others’ arms and into each others’ beds. Sylvain kisses Claude’s neck, Claude drags nails down his back, and they dance, they lie, they cheat, they steal what little time they still have left to steal. 

“I love you,” Sylvain says when they finish, when Claude gathers him up in his arms and runs a hand through his hair, the night before Edelgard attacks. “I really do.” 

Claude tells him to go to sleep.

* * *

It becomes clear, quickly, that Garreg Mach will fall. 

There’s nothing for it, then. Claude heads for the stables, shouting the command to retreat to any classmates that will listen. There are the stubborn ones who stay, who know to fight to their last breaths; and there are those, like Hilda, who are way ahead of him, already on their way out. 

He hitches up a wyvern, movements frantic despite the relative certainty he wasn’t followed. Still, the quiver slung over his shoulder is heavy at his back, the sword at his side like a lead weight. 

He draws it at the first sound of footsteps behind him. When he turns, Sylvain comes into view, lance raised to attack and pointed directly in Claude’s face. 

He’s never been so happy to have a weapon pointed at him. Claude lowers his sword. Sylvain follows suit.

“Running away?” Sylvain asks. 

“Of course.” Claude stares at him evenly, unafraid of being called a coward. He’s been called worse. “And you?”

“I know when I’m beat,” Sylvain answers coolly. He turns his head to look behind him: though unseen, the voices of soldiers and students and knights clamoring and fighting and shouting can be heard in the distance. It sends a chill down Claude’s spine. “Lady Rhea is nowhere to be found, Edelgard’s forces outnumber us at least two-to-one, and the professor has vanished, too. The best we can do now is run and hope for the best.” 

Claude wants to kiss him. 

He holds back. 

“I agree,” he says instead. And then, quietly: “The journey to Gautier will be long.” 

Sylvain steps forward. Claude turns to meet him. He closes his eyes against the hand at his face, sighs as Sylvain’s knuckles brush against his cheek. “Look at you, worrying about me,” he says. “Almost makes me believe you love me back.” 

It’s achingly familiar, the feeling that rises up in Claude at those words. He catches Sylvain’s wrist, drags a thumb across it, and opens his eyes. “I don’t,” he says. “And you don’t love me, either.” 

Claude doesn’t know if he tugs Sylvain closer, or if Sylvain presses against him of his own volition. He supposes that it doesn’t matter, in the end: all that matters is that their lips are sealed together, soft and parting and welcoming. Gentle. 

And maybe, just maybe, a little sad. 

“I do,” Sylvain says, words escaping him on a quiet exhale. “I do love you.” 

And Claude laughs. “Yeah?” he asks. There’s something different in Sylvain’s tone this time. Something hidden in his confession, in the way he smiles as he lies.

“Find me after the war, then,” Claude tells him. “And maybe I’ll believe you.” 

They kiss once more, and Claude pulls away. He mounts his wyvern; Sylvain mounts his horse. 

They’re not in love, Claude tells himself. And it’s better that way. 

It makes it easier to say goodbye.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this and think you might like to see more, have a chat, or would like to get to know me, please check out my twitter [@tim3hopp3r](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r).
> 
> And if you would like to find out how to support me, I have a handy list of links right [here](https://twitter.com/tim3hopp3r/status/1355219789560471554). Please check it out! I wouldn't be able to do this without people like you supporting me. ♥
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


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